


Swansong

by saraid



Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-06 01:07:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5397194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saraid/pseuds/saraid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a very different Jedi Order, Obi-Wan must undergo a painful rite of passage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swansong

It was late enough that most of the inhabitants in this wing of the Coruscant Temple, with quarters generally restricted to active teams that spent most of their time off planet, were either asleep or well on their way, so the Jedi Master felt that his reputation for dignity would not be tarnished by his current disheveled condition. He could have stayed in the rooms of his paramour, but had chosen to return to the quarters he shared with his Padawan. They had only returned from their most recent mission that afternoon and he knew Obi-Wan always felt awkward adapting back to Temple life. There was a chance they would be here for more than a day or two this time, he would have other opportunities to spend the night in his lover's arms. 

"Qui-Gon Jinn." Startled - had he been so caught in his thoughts that he'd missed someone approaching? - Qui-Gon turned slowly to face the being that spoke in the deep, echoing voice. Hilatakka'T'm'Bra took up nearly half of the wide hallway, his many-tentacled bulk pulsing with multiple heartbeats. 

"Master of Conformity." He gave a polite half-bow and came closer. Hilatakka'T'm'Bra was getting older and his sight was failing. He had been Qui-Gon's instructor as well as that of all of his Padawans. Rumor had it he'd been Master Yoda's instructor, too, nearly 800 years earlier - but no one could confirm that. 

The Office of Conformity was an archaic institution, a part of the Jedi path that Qui-Gon personally thought should have been abolished centuries ago. But like many of his ideas, that was considered ill-reasoned and radical and he doubted it would happen in his lifetime. And there was no reason to be hostile to the highest-ranking member, who was himself kind and polite to the extreme. 

"How may I be of service?" He asked, standing still, hands folded into wrinkled - he winced - sleeves. 

"Your Padawan, Qui-Gon Jinn." Hilatakka'T'm'Bra waved three tentacles in the air, weaving them into a pattern of mild agitation. 

"Is approaching the deadline, I am aware." O of C had a singular mission within the Jedi; to set each and every Jedi on one of the three sacred paths. Each of the paths put different restrictions on the life and training of the Jedi that walked it. 

Aesthete, Warrior and Academian. 

There were good points and bad points to each, and many times important aspects of each overlapped from one to the other, but each had a distinct feel in the Force, clearly-defined limits and an assortment of deadlines for completing the different requirements, most of them set in stone. 

Obi-Wan's final, and most important deadline was almost upon them. 

"The Padawan has not sought instruction or guidance. His assigned advisors have come to me and expressed their deep concern." Hilatakka'T'm'Bra lowered all tentacles to the floor, raised them again slightly, his race's version of a human shrug, meant, Qui-Gon knew, to demonstrate his frustration with the situation. "I seek a conversation with his Master." 

Swallowing heavily, knowing that his reaction would be noted, Quo-Gon bent in a deep bow. There was nothing for it; he would have to talk about it. "A meditation room would provide the necessary shielding." He replied, straightening and waiting for Hilatakka'T'm'Bra to start moving - his bulk took a bit of effort to get flowing, it was a factor of his age; the lubricating slime his body excreted flowed more reluctantly now. To walk before he did would be to draw attention to that, and embarrass him. Something Master Qui-Gon Jinn would never do deliberately - or without reason. 

There were several such rooms on this floor, and they paced toward one in contemplative silence, Qui-Gon considering the implications of what he'd been told, Hilatakka'T'm'Bra no doubt reviewing their past encounters to help him formulate his arguments. That's what Qui-Gon would have been doing in his shoes. Well, with his suckerfeet... 

It wasn't that he didn't respect the O of C and what it was meant to do. But the Jedi Order had changed since its inception and Qui-Gon just didn't feel it was beneficial anymore. When it had first began, in the dark ages, as it were, when the Republic had been a wild place populated by scattered smatterings of intelligent life and the first of those who found themselves with this incredible ability to touch that which created and sustained them all - the Force - then the O of C had been needed. Rather desperately. Through it a newcomer to the Order, and in later years, Padawans and newly-anointed Knights, could prove their dedication to the Order. To the Jedi as a whole. As an ideal. To participate in the ritual subjugation, to open their minds fully to another and allow it to be plundered without any attempt at self-defense....it was the most traumatic experience a Force- sensitive could suffer. Even in this day not all who took the final step survived it. And it wasn't just the mental and emotional dominance that had to be suffered, but the physical as well, all the more difficult for some....especially those identified as Aesthetes. 

It was usually obvious which path a Jedi was on, from the moment they entered the Temple. No Council member had ever approached the infant Qui-Gon, or the adolescent or even the adult and said ; "You are a Warrior." It had always been obvious. He'd always known. His friends had always known. His Master had known without asking. 

The Office of Conformity had always known. He was sure it had been marked down in one of their big books, recorded in one of their singular computers somewhere, the day they had decided. That Qui-Gon Jinn strode the path of the Warrior. His classes had been arranged his training directed accordingly. 

A special few were not so fortunate. 

They reached the largest of the rooms available and Qui-Gon held the door while his companion entered, then went in himself, settling in a lotus position on a mat while Hilatakka'T'm'Bra got comfortable. They did not speak yet, the other being apparently aware that Qui-Gon was thinking things through. Perhaps thinking about it as well. 

A special few. A select few, he'd told Obi-Wan when, only a day after their return from Baldur and the mission that had bonded them - against his will, he admitted even now - into a Master-Padawan team. That was the day he had learned that Obi-Wan Kenobi; thirteen years old, a Jedi Padawan, brilliantly gifted in the Force, had not been set upon a path. 

Discrete inquiries led to the Creche Master, and Qui-Gon listened to her tale with almost stunned disbelief. When he was young, they had believed that Obi- Wan would find a path. Then it was believed that, after he was taken as a Padawan, his Master would choose one for him. When he reached the age of twelve or so and was still an Initiate, with no potential Master on the horizon, it had been decided that, since it didn't seem likely that he was to be a Jedi anyhow, he would simply be allowed to continue as he had been. 

Qui-Gon had read the reports, the interviews, seen the confusion in Obi- Wan's eyes as he was questioned and queried, the pain when it seemed that he knew he was somehow not measuring up and those around him did not explain how or why. Even Hilatakka'T'm'Bra had interviewed him more than once during his formative years, but no action had been taken. 

Obi-Wan's fate had been decided. He was not meant to be Jedi. So why burden him with the choice of a path when he showed no affinity for one? 

The Force had felt differently. Qui-Gon had been thankful for that ever since. 

"Your Padawan did not come to this place naturally." Hilatakka'T'm'Bra spoke now, as Qui-Gon surfaced from a meditation much deeper than he'd realized. The room was large, but felt claustrophobic with his bulk filling most of it. Taking a deep breath - Hilatakka'T'm'Bra smelled of soft flowers and wet earth, as did all of his people, a pleasant, natural scent - Qui-Gon nodded, letting his hands rest in the opening position of a calming kata of the Mersazi variety; nearly microscopic movements of fingers and wrist, invisible to anyone who did not know what they were seeing. It was something he had learned so that he could teach Obi-Wan, who had trouble sitting still during long negotiations when he was younger. 

Truly, Qui-Gon had not been at a stage in his life where taking a Padawan was the best choice for either of them; as a top negotiator and fighter, he spent much more time away from the Temple that his peers and most of it dealing with the mission, which left little room to teach. But Obi-Wan had flourished in the atmosphere of not infrequent neglect. 

"Obi-Wan was placed upon his path because his talents are diverse and he is not strongly gifted enough in any one thing to become a master of it." Qui-Gon spoke slowly, basically reviewing the facts aloud. "He is a skilled fighter, a determined student and a compassionate man. But his nature is not basically composed of any of these." 

"The emotional distance he maintains from others has always been obvious." One tentacle, flushed a rather grisly shade of orange - it made Qui-Gon wish he could politely look away - rose and the tip looped into a spiral in the space between them. "For this Padawan, a lack of emotion is the strongest emotion. A negative that outweighs his many positives." 

They were not speaking of negatives and positives in value terms, but as measures of energy. Qui-Gon knew that Obi-Wan's lack of emotion was, in the end, more powerful that any of his other talents. In many cases it enhanced his other talents, giving him the ability to use them to their fullest without worrying about how it made him feel. Obi-Wan was compassionate, and caring, and he did feel things deeply. Most things just didn't penetrate his connection to the Force, which was his bedrock. Unlike his Master, who often rather ruefully wished aloud that he did not care quite so much for those they dealt with, because it made it that much harder for him to experience their pain. With his own emotions so close to the surface, Qui-Gon could become the walking wounded - that would never happen to Obi-Wan. 

"That was the deciding factor." Qui-Gon agreed after a pause that he perhaps allowed to go too long. "There are few Aesthetes left in the Order, and there will be fewer still in the future." They both thought about that for a few moments. 

At one time, being an Aesthete had been the desired path. Unencumbered by emotional attachments, able to act rationally under almost any circumstances. Four hundred years ago that had been the perfect Jedi. But times and opinions had changed. It was discovered that Jedi could laugh and love and live real lives without losing their place in the Force. More and more took to other paths as it became clear it was allowed, that they would not suffer for it within the Order. 

Now the only Aesthetes Qui-Gon knew of were a few Master Healers, a Master Artesian, and Obi-Wan Kenobi, who showed no talent to become either one of those things. He was meant to be Jedi Knight. The Force willed it. 

"All paths must take the final step." Hilatakka'T'm'Bra said at last. His spiraled tentacle snapped out suddenly, cracking like a leather whip beside Qui-Gon's head. "Tell him that there will be no allowances made. He must follow his path as all others tread theirs." 

Qui-Gon lowered his head, felt his tangled hair fall into his eyes, did not move to brush it away. "Yes, Master." He answered, sadness welling deep within him. He had thought perhaps - hoped - that they would not require it of his Padawan. His still- fragile, always vulnerable Padawan. 

It was Obi-Wan's dignity that masked that vulnerability, and he knew he was the only one who had ever seen it. The years of being adrift in the Order, the decision to send him to the AgriCorps, his own rejection of him; these things had left Obi-Wan with a deep-seated insecurity. A doubt in himself that his rational mind rejected out of hand. But it lingered, hiding in the recesses of his psyche, waiting for a chance to strike. The ritual of subjugation, the final step, would be the perfect opportunity for it. 

He heard Hilatakka'T'm'Bra leave, but Qui-Gon didn't move. Obi-Wan's Day of Acceptance; the day he'd come into the Temple, was barely forty-eight hours away. On that day time would run out. 

After too long sitting, he rose, stiff and sore, weighed by responsibility and sadness, and completed his interrupted trek to his quarters. One of the things forbidden to Aesthetes was sexual contact - almost any physical contact at all, really - and it had never seemed to bother Obi-Wan to do without it. As a teenager he had pulled away when Qui-Gon, forgetting - his first two Padawans, Sharl'Pu and Xanatos both - had been Warriors both and required consistent amounts of physical comfort - when he forgot and hugged Obi-Wan or patted his affectionately, the younger man had tolerated it, stiffened occasionally, and given him a look that had said 'I'm letting you do this because I know it's your way and it makes you feel better, but I'd really rather you didn't.’ But Qui-Gon had kept hugging him once in a while, and patting him more frequently, because he just couldn't believe within himself that any humanoid didn't need that kind of contact at some level. Even Jedi Aesthetes. 

But he'd chosen to not flaunt his own physical life in the younger man's face. He took his lovers outside their quarters and kept the details to himself. As a Warrior he was expected to have large physical appetites and it was acceptable to indulge them with moderation; something he had not always practiced, especially as a young man! But he had learned from Obi-Wan that sometimes there was more to be said with a look than a touch. 

No doubt his Padawan would know with a look what was troubling him now as soon as he entered their quarters. 

It was a sad thing that he could not solve this problem with either of those simple solutions. 

 

________________________________________

 

"Padawan." 

Having found Obi-Wan asleep in the armchair, a text in hand, when he returned so late, Qui-Gon had chosen to not disturb him. Now it was past dawn, and he'd slept in, and the younger man, freshly bathed and dressed, was serving breakfast onto a pair of stoneware plates they had thrown together, the dark glazes and intricate patterns another tangible metaphor of their life together. Their rooms and their lives, were filled with such reminders that this was the way things were meant to be; the Force seemed to revel in pushing them to make and do things that spoke so, to them and all that saw what they did. 

They were strong together. Qui-Gon hoped he would be strong enough to be what Obi-Wan needed now. He didn't know what that was, but he trusted his Padawan to tell him. Or the Force; whichever spoke first. 

Surely this would not destroy someone as centered, as powerful as Obi- Wan? 

"Yes. Master?" Mild tone of inquiry, though Qui-Gon had deliberately used a command voice, albeit somewhat softened. 

Qui-Gon stood in the center of the common room. He refused to take this topic to table - a meal was no place to discuss something this potentially painful. With a plate of sliced fruit - greasha and ipi0i and uyyi'iy!, all Qui-Gon's favorites - in one hand and a selection of hot breads in the other, Obi-Wan waited patiently. Their eyes met, and Qui-Gon smiled faintly. 

"I spoke to Master Hilatakka'T'm'Bra early this morning." Or had it been late last night? They spent so much time away, sometimes he had trouble figuring out when he was when they returned. Obi-Wan had no such problem; he was gifted with a perfect timesense, the envy of many. All he had to do was instruct his body to adjust to the time it was on whatever planet they were on and then he was, with no regard to planetary rotations or moon cycles or day lengths. A valuable talent that had saved them more than once. 

"Yes, Master." A new tone; subservient but still confidant. Qui-Gon waited, hands crossed before him. Obi-Wan put the plates on the table and bowed. "It will be resolved, Master." 

Was it enough? Staring at his Padawan; he'd grown into an exceptional young man, much stronger than he looked, able to withstand severe hardship, his body honed and hardened, mind stretched and filled. Qui-Gon still occasionally heard young Knights and older Padawans mourning his status as untouchable. For he was beautiful as well, moreso because he was completely unaware of it. Now he waited, patiently, no hint of hurry or worry in his Force aura, head bowed, for Qui-Gon's judgement. Trusting his Master implicitly. 

It was enough. 

"I am - pleased." The word came hard. He knew how difficult this was going to be. How painful Obi-Wan would find it. But he also knew now that Obi-Wan would do what was required, and that he would continue on his path to becoming a Knight. It was the goal they both held dear. 

"Thank you, Master." A touch of quiet humor, and Obi-Wan went to get the rest of the meal, baked meats and mild wine. 

They ate while discussing their schedules for the day, inevitably waiting for them when they came home after a mission; lists of duties and classes and social calls they needed to make to keep their lives organized and fulfilling. 

"Will you be attending the Initiate's saber demonstration this afternoon?" Obi-Wan asked, his food cut into neat bites and eaten in methodical order. Qui-Gon had once asked if it tasted better that way and Obi-Wan had assured him it did. For himself the older man poured sticky-sweet over a chunk of warm bread, folded it in thirds, and bit off half, letting the syrup run down his chin, since he hadn't bathed yet anyhow. It ran down his wrist as well, and he bent his head to lick it off, rolling his eyes at Obi-Wan's long-suffering sigh. 

"No, the Warrior's social is this evening and I haven't been able to attend in literally months. I'm looking forward to trading stories. Will you join me?" As his Padawan Obi-Wan was technically invited to these things automatically, but he seldom attended; the atmosphere was a bit looser than he was comfortable with and he was supposed to be allowed to pursue his own level when they were home. Seek his own pleasures, whatever they might be. Qui-Gon suspected any free time this visit would be spent in practicing a new kata Obi-Wan was designing for the creche babies; there were only a handful simple enough for them, and more were needed. It was a challenging endeavor; making them both interesting and educational enough without making them too hard or boring for toddlers. He had submitted two versions already, both rejected, and was determined to succeed with this latest revision. 

He called it 'The Old Man' and there were movements in it that reminded Qui-Gon strongly of himself. He chose to be flattered. 

"I may." The answer surprised him and he let it show on his face. Obi-Wan stood and shrugged lightly, beginning to clear the mess they had made. "We have not been able to spend much time together lately. The last several trips we've separated to facilitate the mission." With his hands filled again - how many times had Qui-Gon seen him thus, doing the domestic work as if it were a meditation in and of itself? - he looked directly at his Master. "I have missed your company." It was a huge admission from this young man. 

"Should I stay home tonight and spend the time with you instead?" He honestly wanted to know if Obi-Wan had a preference. "It is no hardship, my Obi- Wan." The affectionate endearment earned him another roll of expressive grey- green eyes. 

"*No*, Master. I will come join you after the saber performance and we can talk a bit afterwards." 

Qui-Gon relaxed, feeling relieved. Obi-Wan did want to talk to him about the ritual, he did want guidance and encouragement. That would make it easier for Qui-Gon to watch him go through it. Not that he would watch, necessarily. There were several options available to the younger man. The subjugation had to take place in public, yes, but 'public' could be widely defined. It wasn't really required that there be witnesses, only that there could be. Just a few months ago a female Padawan, a Freegian, had reached her deadline; unfortunately it fell in the middle of her reproductive cycle, so she had already been carrying a litter, and was almost to due date. She had performed her ritual in the middle of the night in one of the public gardens, and all but one person who'd been warned in advance had stayed away, to spare her feelings at such a delicate time. 

It was stories like those that further convinced Qui-Gon that the time for these games had passed. 

"I look forward to it." He told Obi-Wan, then he slouched out of his chair - hearing Master Yoda's voice in his head, as he did every time he didn't maintain proper posture; "Tall you are. Short am I. Insult me it does when pretend otherwise you attempt." 

As much as he loved him, there were times he had hated Master Yoda. 

 

________________________________________

 

"So I ducked this way -!" The drink in his hand splashed when Qui-Gon demonstrated, legs spread wide, crouched low and sideways, one arm high over is head wielding an imaginary lightsaber while the real thing bounced on his hip. "And Obi-Wan went the other way - and we pinned him between us! The rebel leader didn't know what hit him - he went down like a sack of tubers." 

"And you didn't trip over your feet?" Another Master inquired slyly. "I seem to recall seeing that happen whenever you tried a move in any direction beside forward!" 

"Hey!" Qui-Gon rumbled in good-natured protest; it was late, he'd been gossiping and carousing with old friends for several hours and he couldn't remember having been this relaxed in months - possibly years. Yes, Obi-Wan would have to take the final step, but he was going to let his Master help him through it and then they could get to the real work of getting him knighted. "For a few months when I was fifteen, but never since!" 

"I've sat the oars in boats smaller than those boots!" Someone hollered, having heard the comment from across the room. 

"I've seen roast Bantha served on a smaller platter!" 

"If you think his shoes are big, you should have to wash the socks." 

All heads in the room turned at the new voice. It was quiet, and low, and practically devoid of warmth or humor. 

"Force, Qui-Gon. You should have warned us." All laughter fled, the Jedi closest to him backed away as everyone stared. 

"I would have..." Too shocked to elucidate, Qui-Gon held, as if frozen, suddenly acutely, absurdly aware of the dark wine that dripped slowly from his tipped goblet and ran down his wrist to abandon his arm at the elbow and leap for the cushioned floor below. "Padawan." He meant it to be firm, to be critical, but it came out half-frightened, unsure, and showed the depth of his worry. 

"Master." Naked, pale but not blushing, Obi-Wan entered the room through the largest of the two doors - the one that came from the main hall of the general quarters, where most social activities took place. Where most of the beings at the Temple gathered for food, recreation and socialization. 

Which meant that Obi-Wan had possibly - probably - walked naked through crowds of Jedi. And all of them had known what it meant, what he was doing. Qui-Gon closed his eyes briefly, unable to bear the thought. Why had Obi- Wan made it so public? 

"I've come to take the final step on this path." Obi-Wan said, moving toward him. There was no doubt in Qui-Gon's mind that his Padawan intended to approach him for the ritual, but he was positive that he didn't want to participate. But if he refused, Obi-Wan would not complete this step; choosing the appropriate partner was part of the test. If Qui-Gon refused, Obi-Wan would never become a Knight. 

Was that what he wanted? Was he choosing Qui-Gon because he couldn't bear to do this? 

Pulling himself up, standing tall, Qui-Gon stared hard at his Padawan as the younger man walked toward him slowly. People fell away from him, respectfully. Some seemed uncomfortable, some seemed nervous, a few seemed angry; perhaps they thought the Padawan should have chosen another night to do this and not interrupted their rare night off. Most just seemed unhappy. Obi-Wan's history was known, of course, many of these people had been his teachers in various things. They would all be aware of the special circumstances that made this moment so potentially devastating. 

Obi-Wan stared right back at him. Almost glared. It seemed like the younger man was daring him. Challenging him. To back down or accept? 

After a moment Qui-Gon realized that he could not tell. He chose to go with his instincts, and what he believed to be his exceptional understanding of his Padawan. 

"This is a long and difficult path, Padawan." He said, the same words he'd spoken when he set Obi-Wan on it. "The final step may not lead to an end you can live with." That was the nice way of putting it. Stripped, exposed, emotionally and physically, Obi-Wan might not be able to reconcile this experience with the rest of his life; with what he knew of himself. Though it was rare, there were still those who chose the fourth path after the final step. The path the Jedi spoke of in hushed, furtive whispers. 

Warrior, Aesthete and Academian. And Fallen. 

To be Fallen did not, as most thought, mean one that had turned to the Dark Side of the Force. That was Turned, a term now applied to another Qui-Gon had loved, though not quite as deeply and dearly as he loved this young man. Xani had been brilliant and vital in ways Obi-Wan was not and never would be, and Xani had taken the final step with a touch of sarcasm and an arrogant grin that had carried him through. Now Xani was Turned. 

If Obi-Wan chose to die after this, he would become Fallen. He would abandon his physical body and seek solace in the Force that would take and nurture him until it was time for his spirit to try again. 

"I will only fall as far as this floor tonight, Master." As much assurance as he was going to get. 

"Why - tonight, Obi-Wan?" He watched as Obi-Wan stopped before him, and then began to sink slowly to his knees, exhibiting a remarkable degree of muscular control to do so with such precision and grace. 

"The day I came to the Temple is one of my fondest memories; for the first time in my life I was with people who felt the things I felt, who saw the things I saw. I hold to that memory when I wonder what my place is in the Order; I cling to it when I doubt that the place I have worked for truly awaits me. To do this tomorrow, on the anniversary of that memory, would be to tarnish it beyond recognition." On his knees now, he tilted his head back. His braid was undone, the soft hairs scattered glistening across his shoulder and chest, a few wispy strands stuck to his cheek and eyelid. "I cherish that memory too much to allow that to happen." 

Obi-Wan was naked. He was on his knees, legs spread. His penis was soft, lying wrinkled and unprotected against his left thigh. He put his hands out to the sides, palms up, displaying himself. Qui-Gon saw the sweat the beaded on his forehead and upper lip and knew how hard it was for him to do that. "Why..." Why me? He wanted to ask. But it wasn't part of the ritual. Obi- Wan did not have to tell him, now or later, why he had chosen his Master instead of one of his friends, or a stranger that he had no connection to, which was the choice most made. Someone they would come into contact with rarely, so they wouldn't have to be reminded of their humiliation. For it was supposed to be that, certainly. That and more. 

For Obi-Wan to choose him meant either that they would never see each other again after the younger man was knighted, or that Obi-Wan thought he could live knowing that the only other person in the world that knew him so deeply was the one person he trusted. 

"No." He said, and saw Obi-Wan's eyes fly wide, the whites visible, terror clear on his face though he struggled to contain it. He'd already begun the opening, Qui-Gon saw, had already begun the excruciating process of dropping the multitude of shields he'd been taught to erect over he last twenty years. Some of them were so old and so hard - Qui-Gon remembered well how it had felt to fight with his own mind, ripping at his own soul to get those walls down. And how much higher were Obi-Wan's, with his emotional distance and carefully created dignity? "I mean, no, forget I asked that." He said hastily, wanting to ease that terror. It actually encouraged him; Obi-Wan wanted to continue. 

 

________________________________________

 

Qui-Gon crouched, lay a hand on a bare shoulder, felt the muscle and tendon he had helped create, the sweat and trembling not visible to the naked eye. 

"I will walk beside you for a little ways, as you reach this end." He said softly, the expected words of agreement. Behind him he heard the murmur of the others and wished them to silence. But he could not speak to them, or acknowledge them not until this was finished. For the duration of this, he was neither observer nor participant, but locked in the limbo between them. He could neither speak nor move beyond what was necessary to prepare himself, which consisted of little more than grabbing a large cushion off the nearest low couch and kneeling on it, untying his loose leggings and lowering them to mid-thigh. It was warm enough that he wasn't wearing his robes, just a tunic, and he bunched the majority of the tail behind him and out of the way. 

Then, hearing the roughness of his voice and wondering if he was going to lose control and embarrass both of them by crying, he leaned back, both arms braced on the floor, peripherally glad that it was softened. It would play havoc with Obi-Wan's knees, though. Ready, he closed his eyes again and listened. It was not a comfortable position, and his legs were already complaining; a hazard of age. 

There was a shuffle and he opened his eyes again, in time to see Obi- Wan leaning down. There were people surrounding them now. The audience watched with guarded, intent expressions. Polite, withdrawn observers, no more. 

The first touch of Obi-Wan's tongue was a shock. He gasped, and felt a shudder run through his body. He expected Obi-Wan to skip the niceties and get right down to business, but instead the younger man nuzzled Qui-Gon's half- erect cock, scenting it, lowered his head further to lick and suckle his testicles, inhaled and exhaled heavily at the crease of hip and thigh before finally returning to the penis and sucking gently at the tip. 

It was important to Qui-Gon that he get hard, and quickly, both to encourage Obi-Wan and reinforce his efforts and to take care of that doubt in his own mind, that he wouldn't be able to hold up his end of the bargain, so to speak. With his decades of body control to draw on, it really wasn't a problem and soon he was rock hard and weeping, his stomach trembling with anticipation, breath beginning to come in gasps. 

But still Obi-Wan played, or teased, or explored. Qui-Gon told himself that this was the first time the younger man had touched anyone sexually, including himself, and it was only natural that he would be curious about it. Not in a sexual sense, but an academic one. He'd seen Obi-Wan approach several unpleasant experiences just as something to experience, something new to be added to the list of things he'd seen and done, to be compared and evaluated later. 

For an Aesthete to become sexually active was unheard of, and Obi-Wan had certainly never shown any signs of desiring that. But he was clearly using the opportunity to do a little hands - or tongue-on - research. Despite the lack of experience his touch was knowing and applied with just the right amount of pressure to make Qui-Gon hungry for more. 

At last he opened his mouth wide and took in as much of the large organ as he could, closing his eyes and sucking strongly. Qui-Gon could feel him battling down the gag reflex and hoped that he hadn't eaten before this. Being vomited upon would not improve the night for him, as weird as it already was. 

The sucking went on and on and he hovered at the verge of orgasm for so long that he feared he would have to say something and break the silence or risk climaxing, which would leave him unable to complete the ritual and Obi-Wan no longer a Jedi. As if he heard the words his Master thought, Obi-Wan pulled away with seeming reluctance and gave the wet, reddened tip a tender kiss. Then he leaned up and laid a similar kiss on Qui-Gon's half-parted, panting lips before turning around and spreading his legs wider. 

It was awkward for him, to shuffle backwards on the cushioned floor, trying to get his knees to either side of Qui-Gon's. The older man saw the tremor that ran through Obi-Wan continuously, most visible in his arched back, and wished, just once, that there was another way to do this. His shields were dropping. Qui-Gon was beginning to feel him, to feel the fear and shame and anger that this was making Obi-Wan feel. It was important that he feel those things, at least at first, because those were things he was meant to learn to accept. That was what this ritual was supposed to teach him. To teach all Jedi. If they could not submit - physically and emotionally - to an elder, then they could not be Jedi. 

Qui-Gon was often grateful that the rules had changed with time. Once it had been acceptable for any Jedi Master to demand this of any apprentice, anywhere, anytime, if the Master doubted that apprentice's dedication. Of course that had been abused and the custom fell out of favor quickly. 

Obi-Wan reached back with a hand that shook slightly, grasping Qui-Gon's penis. The hardness had faltered while he watched his Padawan move, knowing as he did that the younger man did not want this, could not want this, but now he willed it back to full size. It would need to be that way for Obi-Wan to complete the act, and to cause him as little pain as possible. 

It was almost there. His penis pressed firmly against the entrance to Obi- Wan's body. Qui-Gon could feel the touch of wetness there that told him the younger man had prepared his body properly, which made him feel somewhat better. His Padawan had obviously thought this through and made this decision based on his own needs, the way he was supposed to. That he had chosen his Master was unusual, yes, but not unheard of. It was just such an unusual situation. 

Most apprentices would have been sexually active years ago, many would have already engaged in public or semi-public sex long before the time for this step came. Sex was generally thought to be a welcome, needed activity in a Jedi's life, whether for procreation or recreation. Qui-Gon himself had a varied and fulfilling sexual life. Which was a good thing, because he'd been on both ends of this act before and had an idea of what to expect, and what was expected of him. Not as a part of the ritual, of course, but at least he'd done it. 

So when Obi-Wan began to press backwards, using the powerful muscles of his thighs and back. Qui-Gon was able to hold himself completely still. His spine arched, he sucked air between gritted teeth as the penetration progressed in quarter-inch increments. The pressure was intense, bordering on pain and he had to control the urge to move with applied willpower. 

As Obi-Wan opened his body, so too he opened his mind and soon the flashes became a trickle, and the trickle a spurting stream. Qui-Gon shuddered, not just with the force of the act, but the ferocity of the images that he was receiving. Mental bonds were rare and short-lived, he had only shared one with one other person in his life, and it hadn't begun to compare to this. It was like Obi- Wan was pouring his brain out, pouring it over Qui-Gon's head, drowning him in it, and he was finding it hard to breathe beneath the weight of that dogged sharing. 

It was clear right away that Obi-Wan was suffering. Qui-Gon managed to keep his eyes open, but just barely. It was hard to focus, hard to look at his Padawan, to see him like this. He found his glance flitting over the room, registering snatches of time, faces, expressions. 

Master Plo Koon, one of only two Warriors that sat on the Council, with his arms at his sides, off to the left, his feet spread wide as if he felt an attack coming. 

A tall female, human, that Qui-Gon didn't know well; both hands to her mouth, eyes wide and brimming with tears. 

Three huge feet to his right, within inches of his hands, the boots stained with red mud the color of human blood. 

A low hiss of sympathy from someone behind him that he couldn't see. 

The door opening, Mace stepping in and stopping, freezing in place, his cloak swinging in slow motion. 

Obi-Wan moaned, a helpless sound, and snapped Qui-Gon's attention back to where it should have been all along. 

There was a streak of red running the length of Obi-Wan's spine, an indicator of the pain he was feeling, and he had paused with Qui-Gon only halfway in. Paused and then his head was drooping, he slumped downward, but not forward, arms folding, face pressed to the floor, hiding in them. 

Oh, no. Force, no. He had to finish. Had to complete the ritual. They were halfway there, he couldn't quit now. The images Qui-Gon was receiving were tainted red and purple, dark and angry, filled with pain and resentment. 

As the receiver of the ritual, Qui-Gon was not supposed to do anything. Not allowed to say or do anything to affect the outcome. If he did Obi- Wan would fail. 

It was too much. To see his Padawan suffering and be unable to help him. With a grimace he lifted his hand and touched a curve of the beautiful buttock before him. Just barely-there, a feather touch that could convey so much. Whispers rose around them, but he didn't care. They would let him get away with it, he was sure. He was the rebel, the contrarian, the one that kept the Council on its collective toes. They *expected* him to do things like this, to break the rules. And it wasn't a very big break... he hoped. 

Obi-Wan shuddered. He did not lift his head, but the muscles in his back bunched and he began to move again. The pause seemed to have helped, now Qui- Gon slid in more easily, all the way, until his testicles hung warmly, brushing lightly against Obi-Wan's own, which were drawn up tight from the pain. 

It was almost over. With a deep breath Qui-Gon prepared himself, reached for that mental trigger inside that would tell his body to climax, so that it could be done as quickly as possible and shorten this ordeal as much as he could. He had to achieve orgasm for the ritual to be a success, and Obi-Wan had to triumph over his own shields and open his mind completely to his Master. 

Orgasm had to be achieved through Obi-Wan's actions, though. Qui-Gon could do no more than hurry it along. Actual rutting had to take place. Soon it began, with Obi-Wan moving slowly, finding his way around this new sensation, not something he was enjoying, but something that had been forced upon him. At first he made short little strokes that made Qui-Gon bite his lip to stifle a moan of protest, but soon he understood what was needed and the movement became smoother, fluid, and Obi-Wan moved his body easily along the penis that alternately impaled and withdrew. It was very tight and very hot and Qui- Gon was relieved to realize that Obi-Wan wasn't hurting anymore, that he seemed to have adapted. With the physical side being taken care of he turned his attention to the mental, reaching out clumsily for the younger man's mind, unsure of what he might find in it, anxious as well. Would Obi-Wan be able to reach back? To go all the way with this? 

Yes, he was. The spurts became a river and the river a flood as the dam that held in what was Obi-Wan burst and everything gushed out. His body moved fast and furious, fucking himself on Qui-Gon's cock with animalistic fury, uncaring or unaware of the damage he was doing to himself. His head snapped up and Qui- Gon moaned loudly as he struggled to take in and make sense of all he was being given. It was a complete accounting of Obi-Wan's life, every second of it that he remembered, every thought, every feeling, every decision. The sense of desperation that colored it all appalled his Master; how had he managed to keep it all under control? That was the keyword that defined what he was seeing, what Obi-Wan felt; control. Control and desperation. His existence was grounded in the certainty that if he didn't control, if he didn't contain every thought and gesture and action that went contrary to what he was supposed to be, he was a failure and not good enough to be Jedi. 

Blessed Force. That's not the way it was supposed to be. 

The depth and scale of that conviction threw Qui-Gon out of the link and suddenly he was back in his own body, though he didn't remember leaving it, and Obi-Wan was still moving on him, still fucking him, up on one arm now, the other arm at his groin, working his own cock with base need. Blood ran down one thigh and he was making a sound, a deep, gasping sound, he was sobbing, helplessly, like an abandoned child, and Qui-Gon felt the instant he gave in. The taut young body went rigid and a high, keening wail filled the room, searing Qui-Gon's eardrums, and the channel around his penis convulsed as Obi-Wan thrashed, bucking back into him, almost knocking him over. The trigger tripped and Qui- Gon felt his own release spill out, felt it too-warm around the tip of his cock, felt the immediate give of the muscles in his own legs and back and he slumped forward over his Padawan, who was stilling, was pulling away, was curling over onto his side, head covered by both arms, knees drawn up to protect chest and belly, making a sound too deep to be called a sob. 

Someone reached for him - the ritual was over, he needed to be cared for, taken to the Healers, the aftermath dealt with. Obi-Wan had done what he had to, had taken the final step. Only Qui-Gon knew what it had cost him. And more, he now knew how wrong he had been, how wrong they had all been, about his Padawan. Not an Aesthete at all, Obi-Wan had been burying his true nature so deeply for so long that by the time Qui-Gon had taken him he'd even believed what he saw. 

The need for physical contact, unfulfilled for literally decades, had left the younger man with a huge bleeding wound in his soul. It would be Qui-Gon's duty to repair it, because he had never seen it before.  


As he crawled over the top of the smaller man, reaching with both arms to lift him, snarling at the others that tried to help, he felt gratitude welling in him. 

The Force had been right. It had led him to Obi-Wan, and led Obi-Wan to this ritual, where all could be revealed and healing could begin. 

He wrapped himself around the smaller body, held it while it shook, caressed and whispered soothing words and made promises that he could finally keep. Now he could help, now he could heal, now he could show Obi-Wan how to be whole. Because now he knew that his Padawan was not. 

He was vaguely aware that someone - Mace? - was shooing the others out and then something large and warm and soft was draped over the two of them. It had to be clear to the others that this had not been a typical final step ritual, that something profound had occurred, and they were treating it accordingly. The blanket soon allowed Qui-Gon to become warm, but in his arms Obi-Wan gradually grew colder and less responsive. 

He sat up, Obi-Wan in his lap, and turned him over. The grey-green eyes were closed, veins standing out like blue embroidery in the chalky white skin. His respirations were slow and shallow and Qui-Gon felt a moment's fear that he quickly banished. Cuddling him, he kissed the slack face, used his tongue to open the limp mouth and blow soft puffs of air into the body he held. 

Soon Obi-Wan stirred. He opened his eyes, stared up at Qui-Gon for a moment, and then burst into tears again. This time he grabbed his Master, hands twisting in the older man's tunic, and he buried his face in his neck, where the tears ran warm and sticky. 

"No - didn't - know -" Words were too much and he just cried. 

"I know. Now I know. All will be well, my Obi-Wan. All will be well." 

Holding him, rocking him while he cried himself to sleep, applying a bit of Force-enhanced healing to mend his abused body, Qui-Gon felt for the first time in many years, that he could breathe. It was odd, because he'd been breathing all along, and never noticed a lack. But now, today, at this moment, his lungs filled and emptied with an ease that amazed him, and the air tasted sweeter than he could ever remember. His soul shifted, making room for a new reality, and he knew that he was right. 

His Obi-Wan would recover, then expand and flourish under the new regime Qui-Gon was already planning for him, based on the new knowledge he held so dear. His Obi-Wan would be fine. Would be good. Would be a great Jedi Knight. 

Would be his Obi-Wan. 

He ducked his head, unsurprised to taste tears on his own lips, and kissed the top of the sweaty, tangled, messy, sleepy head. 

"All will be well."


End file.
